


fill me up, buttercup

by riots



Series: remember me i ask, remember me i sing [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Belly Kink, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Breeding, Creampie, M/M, Oviposition, Ritual Sex, Stomach Bulge, Tender Filth, Tentacles, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:07:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25905583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riots/pseuds/riots
Summary: Jaskier looks hesitant, cupping Geralt’s face in his hands. “There’s a price for returning to life,” he says, and he draws one hand down to press against Geralt’s belly. The vines slide up, coiling around Geralt’s shoulders.Life begets life, the forest whispers, and Geralt’s eyes get caught on the plant tendrils hovering behind Jaskier. A shiver arcs up his spine. “On Birke, Brokilon can use a vessel to spread its seed. Will you - ?”“Yes,” Geralt says, without hesitation. His hands bracket Jaskier’s hips and his thumbs press into the soft flesh. He’s done stranger things for less, and for Jaskier, he’d do anything.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: remember me i ask, remember me i sing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1879690
Comments: 47
Kudos: 538





	fill me up, buttercup

**Author's Note:**

> what if that ritual in brokilon went in a VERY different direction?? alternate ending for 'remember me i ask, remember me i sing'. set up won't make sense without context, but honestly, it's mostly just filth. 
> 
> the working title for this was 'tender tentacle time'. anyway!! easily the filthiest thing i have ever written byeeeee

**1256 - BIRKE**

Geralt is tiring of Kernow, and Kernow is tiring of him. He hasn’t been chased out of his lodgings at the tavern at the edge of town, but each night, the patrons watch him with more unease. It’s not like a Witcher to stay in one place for long, especially without a contract. Still, and this makes his gut ache, there’s no outright malice. The humans avoid him, the dwarves bought him a round when they spotted him, but no one spits on him and tells him to leave. Jaskier’s song, still at work. He got the fame he wanted.

As the moon rises on the evening of Birke, Geralt packs everything up, tips the innkeeper for her troubles, and heads back towards the trees of Brokilon Forest. He’s been tense for days, muscles so tight he aches when he wakes, and he can’t stop his jaw from clenching. If he’s honest, he’s scared as hell. He lives a sparse life, and he’d learned long ago to stop wanting things. It’s too dangerous, too disappointing. Still, here he is, walking headlong into Brokilon on a fool’s errand because he can’t stop himself from hoping. Jaskier did that, he thinks wryly. He hadn’t thought to hope, until now.

A dryad meets him at the border of the forest. He thinks he recognizes her from a week ago. “Come,” she says, beckoning. She regards him with faint interest, much like Queen Eithné. “Moonlight is wasting.”

They’re heading deep into Brokilon, he realizes. Deeper than he’s ever been. The trees stretch high overhead, and the only light comes from the small lanterns that light their way. He makes certain to keep his eyes on the woman’s heels. They’re doing him a favour, he knows. They won’t take kindly to a man wandering off in their woods.

The clearing he’s lead to this time feels like a hollow between trees. It’s no village, no gathering place, and his medallion hums against his chest. There is a great deal of power here. At the very edge of the trees, the dryad who’d lead him snatches Roach’s reins from his hands and pushes him forward. This time, Queen Eithné isn’t surrounded by her entourage. Senna stands with her, a stylized design of rich brown mud stretching across her cheeks. Behind them is a single massive tree, a spring bubbling up from beneath its wide roots. All he smells is clean water, damp earth, and the scent of warm, latent magic of the earth. If he had to guess, they’re in the very centre of Brokilon now, surrounded by its power.

“Witcher,” the Queen intones. “Are you ready?”

No. How can he be ready for a thing like this? For an answer to this question? “Yes,” Geralt says. Without thinking, his hand finds the dandelion pendant around his neck.

Senna steps forward. “Always with the impeccable timing,” she says. She holds out her hand and it takes him a moment to realize she wants the dagger back. “Full moon on Birke? The day of rebirth. You couldn’t ask for more power.” He places the blade in her hand and is surprised at how it feels, like she’s taking a piece of him with her. It’s a vessel, he realized. He’d known that it was magic before, but it makes a certain sense. Any ceremony takes tools, and imbuing them with more power can’t hurt. “Armour off. Open yourself to the forest.”

He raises an eyebrow but complies, stripping off his armour and setting it down carefully with his swords. Even in the dead of night, the forest around them is silent, and he knows that even the dumb beasts know to fear Queen Eithné. He’s safe enough for now. 

By the time he’s done, he turns to face them once more. The Queen holds the dagger in her hands. “You are an interesting creature, Witcher,” she says. Her filmy dress catches the light of the small lanterns in the trees. “Offering help for no reward. In love with a ghost. Your path is intriguing indeed.”

He blinks, his mouth falling open. “How did you -” He looks at Senna, but she shakes her head.

“He’s all over you,” Queen Eithné tells him, a faint smile on her lips. “He’s left his mark behind.”

 _I know_ , Geralt thinks. 

“I have seen this ceremony performed only a few times in my life,” the Queen continues. “I am not inclined to give prizes to men who persist in wandering where they should not, but you have aided us and the forest twice, and I am interested to see how this plays out.” She steps delicately forward, until her bare feet are immersed in the clear spring water, her back to the broad trunk of the tree. “Kneel.”

There’s no point now in dragging his feet. He’s come all this way, he’s stripped to his pants and shirt, he’s as ready as he’ll be. He kicks off his boots and steps into the cold water, dropping to his knees. 

This is a place of power. He can feel it in the water that runs past him, the mud beneath his knees. This is the best chance he’ll ever have. “Now what?” he asks.

“Head up,” Senna murmurs from behind him. He tips his head back obligingly, and cool mud is spread across his cheeks. The hum of magic around them heightens, and Geralt’s starting to notice that his awareness is...broadening. It’s not his senses, it’s something different. The forest is reaching out to him. 

Geralt sits and waits as Senna scatters flower petals in the water around him. “Moleyarrow, for remembering.” He doesn’t expect when she bends over him, winding long stems into his hair. “Arenaria, for understanding and clarity.” She taps his jaw and he opens his mouth. “Blowball, for homecoming.” The flower is sour on his tongue as he holds it there until she gestures for him to chew and swallow.

As the bitter petals travel down his throat, Geralt’s eyes slide shut, and the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He can feel the hum of magic, but also the buzz of life, all around him. Though his eyes are closed, he can sense Eithné before him, the dagger in her hands drawing his focus, and the focus of the moonlight, the spring, the trees. The dagger pulls on his heart, draws his chest up and forward without even meaning to. 

“Brokilon will hear your plea,” the queen says, voice strong and quiet in the clearing. “Call out to your ghost. Reach out to him, and he will hear.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt murmurs, and he feels it ripple through the air around them, like a stone dropped in water. _Jaskier_. He senses that pull again from Eithné and this time he raises his hand to an unheard question. The swipe of the blade across his palm burns, and Geralt feels everything that was stored in the blade rush back in one swoop, filling him with a surge that makes his head swim. The blood drips hot from the open wound, and Geralt opens his eyes and he pushes both hands down into the cool water running around his knees.

His blood runs silver in the springwater. His awareness spreads out, out, out, and he calls again. _Jaskier. Jaskier. Jaskier!_ He can feel _something_ close by, and he reaches for it, blindly. He feels that familiar, cool presence. _Jaskier,_ he begs, but it slips through his fingers and he grits his teeth and tries again.

Time gets blurry. Geralt watches his blood drip silver bright into the cold water and he hisses through his teeth. “Please,” he says, and he knows the dryads are listening, but it doesn’t matter. “Come back to me.” _I wish_...

This time, he doesn’t feel Jaskier’s presence slide away again. His heart speeds up, blood noisy in his ears, and then there’s rustling behind him. “Ah,” Eithné says. “He joins us.”

Very quietly, from behind him, Senna says, “don’t move.” Geralt’s knuckles are aching in the icy water, his knees from kneeling against the roots, but he obeys. He won’t do anything to jeopardize this. They’re too close now. The sound behind him gets louder, but it doesn’t sound like footsteps. He feels it suddenly, a tug behind his ribs, and he gasps, feeling a second heartbeat in his chest, a mirror of his own.

Green vines, thicker than Geralt’s thumb, curl around his wrists, and he feels a body flatten against his back. They only had Samhain, but Geralt would know the feel of Jaskier’s skin on his anywhere, without hesitation. “Finally, love,” Jaskier murmurs. Geralt stares at the water beneath him, and he trembles, despite himself. 

Before him, Eithné bends and tucks a flower behind his ear. “Remember,” she says, “Brokilon must have its pay.” She traces a finger across his jaw and smiles, and then she is beckoning Senna and stepping away.

“This is real?” Geralt asks, almost to himself. He can hear the pair of footsteps receding, and he can still feel the moonlight above them, the forest around them. And best of all, he can feel familiar hands, sliding under the damp hem of his shirt. 

“So real,” Jaskier says, and Geralt’s eyes close as Jaskier’s fingers come up to cup his jaw. “No, _please_ , look at me.” 

Geralt would do anything Jaskier asks. The Jaskier who moves to kneel in front of him is different from the one he saw every day for so long. He’s solid, present, in a way that Geralt has never known, and Geralt can’t help reaching out to stroke a hand down his bare chest. It’s him, he’s certain. “Gods, Jaskier.” There are vines coiling around his thighs, and Jaskier’s skin, and even his eyes have taken on a green tone, as though he were drawn forth from the forest itself. “What - ?”

The vines around him shift again, and Geralt realizes that they’re coming from Jaskier. “Brokilon’s aid,” Jaskier says, and when he lifts his hand to examine it, a vine follows. Geralt swallows hard, following the motion with his eyes. In his mind, Brokilon murmurs. “I’m not sure what I am, anymore.”

“Alive,” Geralt says hoarsely. The vines tighten around his thighs, almost without Jaskier’s volition, and Geralt makes a sharp noise in the back of his throat. Jaskier watches it all, his pupils dilated.

“Alive,” he agrees, and he bends to nose at Geralt’s cheek. “And yours.” 

His breath, gods, his _breath_ , it’s warm against Geralt’s skin. Geralt reaches for him, mindless, and pulls him in close, kissing him with a ferocious sort of abandon. Jaskier laughs and clambours into Geralt’s lap, the vines shifting against Geralt again. It’s heady, and Geralt feels like he’s all wrapped up in Jaskier. “And I’ve always been yours,” he admits.

Jaskier strokes a hand up Geralt’s belly, pushing his damp shirt with it. “I love you,” he says, head tipped, and his blue-green eyes are fond and warm. “I never got to say it back, but I can now.” His smile is easy. “Rather freeing.” 

There’s a part of Geralt that’s aware of where they are, knee-deep in mud and clear water, Brokilon whispering at the back of his mind, but he doesn’t do a thing to stop Jaskier from pushing his shirt over his head. He wants it, badly. Once his shirt is gone, he tugs Jaskier in again, kissing him until they’re both breathless, just for the novelty of it. His skin feels too hot against the cold of the springwater, and the vines tug at him again. “Say it again,” he growls, and Jaskier laughs.

“I love you,” Jaskier says, and he punctuates the words by dipping his head and digging his teeth into the meat of Geralt’s shoulder. “I _love_ you.” Geralt feels each syllable resonate in his chest, and he feels the echo of it ripple out through the trees. Brokilon hears them. “You _brought me back_.” Jaskier tilts Geralt’s head up and Geralt goes with it easily, his lips parting under Jaskier’s for another kiss. “You’ve done so much for me, and now I must ask more of you.”

Geralt’s hazy with the touch of Jaskier’s skin and the way Brokilon is singing, but he still hears. “Hmm?”

Jaskier looks hesitant, cupping Geralt’s face in his hands. “There’s a price for returning to life,” he says, and he draws one hand down to press against Geralt’s belly. The vines slide up, coiling around Geralt’s shoulders. _Life begets life_ , the forest whispers, and Geralt’s eyes get caught on the plant tendrils hovering behind Jaskier. A shiver arcs up his spine. “On Birke, Brokilon can use a vessel to spread its seed. Will you - ?”

“Yes,” Geralt says, without hesitation. His hands bracket Jaskier’s hips and his thumbs press into the soft flesh. He’s done stranger things for less, and for Jaskier, he’d do anything. “Whatever you need,” he adds. He means it. If it’s Jaskier, it can’t be that bad.

Jaskier groans, diving in to kiss him again. “Wonderful Witcher,” he sighs. When he pulls away, his pupils are blown, dark with intent. “I’ll make it _so_ good for you.” The vines pluck at him, surprisingly strong, and Geralt relaxes into it, as he would Jaskier’s hands. “Come, let’s get out of this water.”

Geralt expects to stand, but instead, Jaskier does the work. He grunts as the vines draw him up, lift him out of the spring and cradle him above the ground. It sends an unexpected jolt of arousal through him, and Jaskier laughs as the clear spring water drips from his legs. “Ooh, you _liked_ that,” he says, delighted. A tendril coils around Geralt’s hand almost affectionately, and Geralt squeezes it back. They’re certainly Jaskier’s.

There’s something about the way that Jaskier manhandles him where he wants him, vines sliding over his bare chest and waist until he’s up in the air, leaning back, thighs spread. Jaskier steps between his legs, warm hands drawing up his body to toy with Geralt’s belt. Geralt’s still got his hands free, and he folds his hands around Jaskier’s elbows. There’s a slow burning heat growing in him, and it only burns hotter as Jaskier gets his belt undone and the vines slowly pull his wet trousers off. “I like _you_ ,” Geralt says, easy as anything, and Jaskier rewards him with a biting kiss on the inside of his thigh. 

“Mmm,” Jaskier says. The vines shift Geralt up higher and pull his thighs wider. He hisses through his teeth at the stretch. “You say the nicest things when I have you at my mercy.” Jaskier draws his thumb up the underside of Geralt’s half-hard cock and watches him jerk, gaze heated. He stoops to nose at the crook of Geralt’s thigh, his mouth hot against Geralt’s balls. “Like something I dreamed up.”

Geralt curls a hand around the back of Jaskier’s head. “You have a lot of dreams like this?” he asks dryly, as a vine traces tenderly over his cheekbone. His cock kicks a little against his belly. It feels like Jaskier is everywhere, all around him, and it’s making it hard to breathe. 

Something slick and flexible slides over his hole, the tip flicking at his perineum. He can’t tell if it’s Jaskier’s tongue, or something else. “I’ve dreamed you in every way,” Jaskier says, voice rough. His teeth dig into Geralt’s thigh, and when the slick pressure returns, Geralt _knows_ it’s a vine. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about all the things we can do.”

“Can’t imagine this was on the list,” Geralt says, and he gasps, arching up as the tip of the tendril teases at him, in tandem with Jaskier’s mouth. When he’d agreed to this, he’d only been thinking about paying whatever price necessary to have Jaskier back. Now? With his cock starting to leak sticky against his stomach and Jaskier’s tongue pushing into him? He’s thinking that maybe he’s more on board with it than he thought he’d be.

“Maybe not,” Jaskier agrees, and Geralt thrills to feel his breath against his skin. “But lucky for you, I am a _very_ good improviser.” He bends his head again between Geralt’s thighs, and his vines draw Geralt’s legs up and towards his chest, binding them there. It’s just enough that he can feel the stretch in his hips, and as he pushes back against them, his breath comes short. Jaskier’s vines are _strong_. He’d have to struggle to free himself. The thought makes Geralt’s dick jerk.

As Jaskier mouths at the underside of his cock, a tendril pushes slowly into Geralt, slick and warm. It’s an easy slide, but _gods_ , the way it curls and writhes inside him. Geralt’s hand in Jaskier’s hair tightens as he shifts his hips, unsure if he’s trying to fuck down into it or away. “Ngh,” he mutters. He feels too hot. He feels a second vine flick at the sensitive skin of his rim and he gasps, breathless.

“Mmm, you feel so good,” Jaskier sighs, his forehead resting against Geralt’s hip. He twists so he can look up at Geralt, and his eyes are dark and so heavy on Geralt. He licks lazily at the side of Geralt’s cock as the second tendril slides in, slow and deep, working in tandem with the first. “Gods, you always take it so well.”

“You feel that?” Geralt groans. The vines twine together, flexing and swelling in a way that makes Geralt’s breath catch in his throat. He tugs Jaskier up so he can kiss him, arms locked tight around him as Jaskier laughs into his mouth.

“Yes, _yes_ ,” Jaskier says, and he nips at Geralt’s lips. Geralt drags his palms up Jaskier’s back, digs his nails in just enough to leave a mark against the pale green. “They’re mine. They’re _me_.” He cuts off with a sharp sound, working a third vine into Geralt’s body. 

The stretch makes the both of them moan, and Geralt’s eyes squeeze shut against the overwhelming sensation. It’s so good in a way he never expected, the curl of the tendrils making his back arch. “Please,” Geralt begs, and he doesn’t even know what he’s begging for. 

Jaskier knows. He cups a hand around the curve of Geralt’s jaw, eyes steady as the vines fuck deep and hard into him. “Come on,” Jaskier says tenderly, and he slides his thumb between Geralt’s lips. He doesn’t touch Geralt’s cock, though it’s achingly hard and leaking against Geralt’s belly with each forceful thrust of the vines. “I know you can.”

The vines twine together, _thicken_ somehow, dragging over Geralt’s prostate with each slide in. Geralt feels so fucking _full_ \- Jaskier pulls his thumb away from Geralt’s mouth and drags his nails down Geralt’s chest, over his nipple. Geralt shouts when he comes, fire in his veins. He gasps through the aftershocks, but the vines don’t still, just slow. “Fuck,” Geralt groans.

He’s not expecting the vines to slide apart again, to push and stretch at his walls. Jaskier has his face buried in Geralt’s throat and he’s trembling. With their bodies pressed together, Geralt can feel the flex of _something_ in his belly, against Geralt’s skin. “Jaskier?” he says.

Jaskier raises his head and he looks drunk with it, his hips moving in little aborted motions against Geralt’s spread thighs. His cock leaves sticky trails over his skin. The tendrils thicken and pulse inside Geralt, so deep it’s like he can feel it in his throat. It’s overwhelming, just this side of too much. “This is mad,” Jaskier says, and then he cries out, pressing his face to Geralt’s shoulder. “I can _feel_ them, Geralt -” 

He snatches Geralt’s hand to him, presses it against his belly, where the seeds? Eggs? Shift inside him. His body is readying itself. “I can take it,” Geralt rasps, and he grunts as the vines speed up again. His own cock is still half-hard, leaking, a mess. His palm skates lower to curl a hand around Jaskier’s prick, but when he does he feels...something new. A slick slit between his cock and his balls.

Jaskier shouts as Geralt presses down with his thumb. “Yes,” Jaskier shudders out, and the tendrils push in deep and hard in response. Geralt can feel the tip of something against his hand. “Gods, Geralt, don’t _stop_.” Jaskier knots one hand in Geralt’s hair as Geralt curls his hand around Jaskier’s cock, jerking him off fast and tight while his other hand teases the slit below.

It only takes a few strokes before Jaskier cries out again, fingers pulling tight in Geralt’s hand as a second shaft pushes out of his body, hot and slick against Geralt’s touch. It’s big, Geralt thinks, and there’s already a bulge forming at the base. Geralt is struck suddenly with the enormity of his _want_. “Jaskier,” he says roughly, and he squeezes, just a little. Jaskier’s helpless with pleasure, just pushes up against his hand. “I’m ready.”

The vines slide out so fast it’s almost painful, and Geralt hisses through his teeth. Jaskier’s mouth against his skin is wet and hot, and then the vines around them are shifting, rearranging them, tilting Geralt’s hips up. Readying him to receive. “ _Please,_ ” Geralt says, voice ragged.

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier gasps, and his hands shake as he reaches down between them. The second shaft _curls_ and writhes as he lines up with Geralt’s body, loose and open, and pushes it in.

If it weren’t for the vines holding him steady, Geralt’s whole body would have been shunted up with the force of Jaskier’s thrust. Jaskier’s so hot and thick inside him, and it’s all Geralt can do to grip at Jaskier’s ribs, nosing mindlessly at his mouth for another kiss. “I can’t wait,” Jaskier sighs, and then Geralt feels it - a pressure pushing at his rim. It feels _huge_. Geralt’s cock jerks between their bodies.

“Give it to me,” Geralt growls into Jaskier’s mouth, and he forces himself to relax. “I can take it, just -” His words are cut off with a shuddering breath as Jaskier grinds his hips against him, shaft flexing deep inside him, and the first seed pushes through. The stretch is more than anything Geralt’s ever taken and as it drags over his prostate his cock kicks and he comes with a surprised cry. He hadn’t thought he could come untouched, he thinks, dazed, and now he’s done it twice in one night.

His cock hasn’t even gone down, and Geralt can feel the way Jaskier’s shaft flexes and pulses, pushing it deep inside his body. Jaskier’s got his arms wound around Geralt’s body, his mouth open against Geralt’s throat, and his body trembles with each throb inside Geralt. “Okay?” Geralt asks, and he strokes a hand through Jaskier’s hair.

“Fuck,” Jaskier says with feeling. His fingers dig into Geralt’s skin. “It’s like with each one, I - _fuck_.” He shouts as the second seed pushes at Geralt’s rim, and he slides one hand down to trace his thumb over where Geralt is stretched, to encourage it in. It takes a moment, and then Geralt is groaning as he’s stretched wide and it slides in.

Each one is a little bit easier. Geralt doesn’t bother to touch his cock, too overstimulated and sticky, but he comes at least once more as the seeds settle inside him. He’d thought the vines were a lot but now, as Jaskier’s shaft pulses inside him and his belly fills, Geralt’s head swims with pleasure. He’s not good with words at the best of times but now all he can do is wrap his hand tight around Jaskier’s neck and hang on.

When Jaskier finally pulls out, shaking, Geralt has no idea how much time has passed. “Gods,” Jaskier says reverently, smiling, and he presses a hand to Geralt’s belly. The Path normally leaves him lean but now, his stomach curves out with what it holds. “Look at you. You took it all.” Geralt covers Jaskier’s hand with his and pushes down, and the jolt of pleasure he feels goes straight to his cock. “Just a little more. I promise.”

“More?” Geralt asks, and then Jaskier pushes his cock into him, the slide easy after all he’s taken. Jaskier’s clearly at the end of his control, and the vines that hold Geralt steady pull him even tighter, the stretch making him ache in pleasurable ways. “Okay. Come on.” His legs are still pinned, but he digs his fingers into the meat of Jaskier’s ass, pulling him in tight.

Each thrust of Jaskier’s hips shifts the seeds inside him, and it’s strange and _so_ good. If it weren’t for his Witcher mutagens, his cock wouldn’t even be making the effort it is to get hard. Jaskier digs his teeth into Geralt’s shoulder again, his hands tight against Geralt’s waist. Geralt hopes, dimly, that it’ll leave marks in the morning.

When Jaskier comes, he fucks him through it, mouthing obscenities into the sweat-damp skin of Geralt’s throat. There’s so much of it, and Geralt groans, squirming and gasping as he’s filled even more. The stretch is obscene, and his back arches as he comes again, nothing but a dribble left in him, the pleasure skittering down his spine. “Jaskier,” he gasps.

Jaskier pants wetly against his chest. “Gods,” he says blearily, and he smiles at Geralt. “That was wild.” When he slowly pulls out, Geralt can feel the warm trickle of come, sliding slickly from his fucked out hole. The vines shift his hips up to stop the flow. Geralt’s face gets hot at the realization that it’s so the seeds will be _fertilized_. “Look at you. A mess.” Jaskier wipes a hand idly through the come drying on Geralt’s skin, and then he traces his fingertips across the curve of his belly. He still feels so full. Geralt snorts, and Jaskier’s eyes meet his. “What?” Jaskier asks.

“I’m nearly one hundred,” Geralt replies, and he tugs Jaskier down to meet him. “I didn’t think I had anything new left to try.”

Jaskier laughs. “Oh, you _liked_ that, did you?” he asks. He kisses Geralt again, languid and sweet. His vines cradle them above the ground, holding them steady, and Jaskier lays carefully to the side, one hand over his stomach. “All of this, for me,” Jaskier sighs.

Geralt clears his throat. “Maybe a little for me,” he says gruffly. Jaskier grins and kisses him again.

The sun is coming up. The horizon is starting to pale, turning pink. Jaskier noses at Geralt’s throat, leaving a trail of lazy kisses on his skin, and a thought occurs to Geralt. “How long do these take to, ah, germinate?” he asks.

“A day or two, I think,” Jaskier says distractedly. Geralt stares at the canopy above them and thinks about spending that time like _this_ , so _full_ , and his cock twitches. Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s chest and starts to laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> SHOUT OUT 2 THE BOYS


End file.
